Scarlett stood on the lower step of the train， a pale pretty figure in her black mourning dress， her crêpe veil fluttering almost to her heels. She hesitated， unwilling to soil her slippers and hems， and looked about in the shouting tangle of wagons， buggies and carriages for Miss Pittypat. There was no sign of that chubby pink-cheeked lady， but as Scarlett searched anxiously a spare old negro， with grizzled kinks and an air of dignified authority， came toward her through the mud， his hat in his hand.
“Dis Miss Scarlett， ain’ it？ Dis hyah Peter， Miss Pitty’s coachman. Doan step down in dat mud，” he ordered severely， as Scarlett gathered up her skirts preparatory to descending. “You is as bad as Miss Pitty an’ she lak a chile ‘bout gittin’ her feets wet. Lemme cahy you.”
He picked Scarlett up with ease despite his apparent frailness and age and， observing Prissy standing on the platform of the train， the baby in her arms， he paused： “Is dat air chile yo’ nuss？ Miss Scarlett， she too young ter be handlin’ Mist’ Charles’ onlies’ baby！ But we ten’ to dat later. You gal， foller me， an’ doan you go drappin’ dat baby.”
Scarlett submitted meekly to being carried toward the carriage and also to the peremptory manner in which Uncle Peter criticized her and Prissy. As they went through the mud with Prissy sloshing， pouting， after them， she recalled what Charles had said about Uncle Peter.
“He went through all the Mexican campaigns with Father， nursed him when he was wounded—in fact， he saved his life. Uncle Peter practically raised Melanie and me， for we were very young when Father and Mother died. Aunt Pitty had a falling out with her brother， Uncle Henry， about that time， so she came to live with us and take care of us. She is the most helpless soul—just like a sweet grown-up child， and Uncle Peter treats her that way. To save her life， she couldn’t make up her mind about anything， so Peter makes it up for her. He was the one who decided I should have a larger allowance when I was fifteen， and he insisted that I should go to Harvard for my senior year， when Uncle Henry wanted me to take my degree at the University. And he decided when Melly was old enough to put up her hair and go to parties. He tells Aunt Pitty when it’s too cold or too wet for her to go calling and when she should wear a shawl. … He’s the smartest old darky I’ve ever seen and about the most devoted. The only trouble with him is that he owns the three of us， body and soul， and he knows it.”
Charles’ words were confirmed as Peter climbed onto the box and took the whip.
“Miss Pitty in a state bekase she din’ come ter meet you. She’s feared you mout not unnerstan’ but Ah tole her she an’ Miss Melly jes’ git splashed wid mud an’ ruin dey new dresses an’ Ah’d ‘splain ter you. Miss Scarlett， you better tek dat chile. Dat lil pickaninny gwine let it drap.”
Scarlett looked at Prissy and sighed. Prissy was not the most adequate of nurses. Her recent graduation from a skinny pickaninny with brief skirts and stiffly wrapped braids into the dignity of a calico dress and starched white turban was an intoxicating affair. She would never have arrived at this eminence so early in life had not the exigencies of war and the demands of the commissary department on Tara made it impossible for Ellen to spare Mammy or Dilcey or even Rosa or Teena. Prissy had never been more than a mile away from Twelve Oaks or Tara before， and the trip on the train plus her elevation to nurse was almost more than the brain in her little black skull could bear. The twenty-mile journey from Jonesboro to Atlanta had so excited her that Scarlett had been forced to hold the baby all the way. Now， the sight of so many buildings and people completed Prissy’s demoralization. She twisted from side to side， pointed， bounced about and so jounced the baby that he wailed miserably.
Scarlett longed for the fat old arms of Mammy. Mammy had only to lay hands on a child and it hushed crying. But Mammy was at Tara and there was nothing Scarlett could do. It was useless for her to take little Wade from Prissy. He yelled just as loudly when she held him as when Prissy did. Besides， he would tug at the ribbons of her bonnet and， no doubt， rumple her dress. So she pretended she had not heard Uncle Peter’s suggestion.
“Maybe I’ll learn about babies sometime，” she thought irritably， as the carriage jolted and swayed out of the morass surrounding the station， “but I’m never going to like fooling with them.” And as Wade’s face went purple with his squalling， she snapped crossly： “Give him that sugar-tit in your pocket， Priss. Anything to make him hush. I know he’s hungry， but I can’t do anything about that now.”
Prissy produced the sugar-tit， given her that morning by Mammy， and the baby’s wails subsided. With quiet restored and with the new sights that met her eyes， Scarlett’s spirits began to rise a little. When Uncle Peter finally maneuvered the carriage out of the mudholes and onto Peachtree Street， she felt the first surge of interest she had known in months. How the town had grown！ It was not much more than a year since she had last been here， and it did not seem possible that the little Atlanta she knew could have changed so much.
For the past year， she had been so engrossed in her own woes， so bored by any mention of war， she did not know that from the minute the fighting first began， Atlanta had been transformed. The same railroads which had made the town the crossroads of commerce in time of peace were now of vital strategic importance in time of war. Far from the battle lines， the town and its railroads provided the connecting link between the two armies of the Confederacy， the army in Virginia and the army in Tennessee and the West And Atlanta likewise linked both of the armies with the deeper South from which they drew their supplies. Now， in response to the needs of war， Atlanta had become a manufacturing center， a hospital base and one of the South’s chief depots for the collecting of food and supplies for the armies in the field.